Wax and Feathers
by devilberry
Summary: Because Oz wants to fly.


_In Greek Mythology, Daedalus was held in exile in Crete, where he and his son, Icarus, were being imprisoned by King Minos. Daedalus contsructed two pairs of wings. He made them with wax and feathers. These wings were used by him and Icarus to escape the island. Before departing, Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun nor the sea. Icarus was overcome by the wonder that is flight, and flew too close to the sun. The wax melted and he dropped into the sea and drowned._

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* * *

_

_Hey, Icarus. It's been a while._

Ten whole years. How are you feeling?

Are you ten years older? Ten years taller? Ten years wiser?

(No, you're not. You're just a kid who is unfortunate enough to know what it feels like to be cold and alone. In some dark unknown place. Some horrible place in some somewhere far away.)

But you're home now. And it's okay.

(But home has grown ten years older, and so has your sweet little friend and all of your sweet little family, and you can't get that "lonely" word out of your brain. And you have a hero inside of you and a weapon at your side and a lock on your chest and it's ticktocking slowly and you're guaranteed to die someday [but aren't we all?] and how does that _feel_?)

(Please don't smile, Icarus.)

Don't hide behind your wings. I told you not to fly too close to the sea nor the sun.

But I know you're still cold (so cold and so sad and broken like a hallelujah), and I'm so sorry. And I know that the sunset looks so warm and yellow and orange and red. _An inferno_, you might be thinking, _I want to touch it._

But please, Icarus, _please_. (Don't live out your dreams.)

I know the sun is setting and the day is ending, but it will come back tomorrow. I promise.

But it's so bright and yellow and I almost understand.

(And I think that I may have heard somewhere that the more pollution is in the air, the brighter the sunset is. Tragic, isn't it? And doesn't the air seem so dirty now? [You can't breathe innocence in with every gasp, that's for certain.] The sunset so brilliant? [Yes, and so much more enticing.])

And your little friend...your servant...he might not be so cute or so innocent or so small, but he's still himself. (He never saw this coming. Didn't expect you to leave him like you did. And you cannot even imagine, little angel. You have _no_ idea what living hell these ten years have turned themselves into.) He still loves you, and you know he does. He's been devoting his life to you. (He's also been alone; did you ever think about that? The Abyss may be cold, but a sealed-off heart can be colder.)

And if you smiled at him like you smile at him, and told him that you want to fly, he would look at you. His cruel, cold, gold eyes would melt and he might even smile. _Yes, Young Master. I'll make you some wings._

(He wouldn't want you to use them, though. Not like this.)

But…is that a sunset? (Or is the horizon on fire?)

Whatever it is, it's so…_beautiful_. And that word is racing through your brain, I'm sure it is. And it looks warm as anything. (And you remember the time that a little dark-haired girl told you that being alone means to be cold.) Love _must_ be warm. (And you're not warm, little Icarus. Your wings can't keep you warm.)

A pale hand—a small one (far too small for a twenty-five-year-old)—presses against a glass window. (A glass window, but it's so chilled that at might as well be ice. At this point, the freezing temperature doesn't even faze you.) You pull it open, keeping a friend's (an old friend's) black jacket pulled around your small frame tightly in order to keep keep you safe from the gusty just-almost-evening air (just like he tried to keep you safe). One last look at the skyline, and you know that you're ready.

People gaze up at you from the streets below with a sense of (horrified) awe. They can do nothing but watch as you take off—straight from the windowsill to the sky.

Stretch those pretty little wings wide, baby bird. A magnificent, golden, sparkling, beautiful, baby bird. (But, not a Raven, anything but a Raven.)

(A Raven is going to be the one to find you lying outside of your nest. He's going to have to cry, and collect and kiss your cracked little shell. He's going to have to hold you close—broken little thing that you will be. He'll have to clean up the wax and feathers that you've smeared all over yourself and the sidewalk [a pool of wax, like a pool of tears, like a pool of blood]. And he's going to have to fall in hate with himself all over again, and all of it is your fault. He spent his life trying to save you only for you to fly away from him. [And, little angel, I can't help but wonder. Did Daedalus search for you, even after you disobeyed him and tried to kiss the sun? Did he search through the sea in the way that this Raven has to search through himself?])

_I'm the hero of this story!_ you think,_ (hereos__ don't need to be saved.)_

And you've got a long way to fly if you want to make it to that sunset before your wings melt, Icarus.


End file.
